


Ballad

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 08:14:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Maglor sold his soul for music.
Relationships: Eönwë/Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43





	Ballad

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He never feels so good as he does fresh off the stage. People come to take his harp, to offer him water, to clean up for the next performer and start packing the equipment, and Maglor just keeps walking, ears full of the buzzing crowd. His own music booms inside him—a heady mix of melodies and eager cheers, a sea of waving hands behind his eyes. For those few moments on stage, he’s truly at peace: he reaches something magical, and he shares it with the world. There’s nothing so profound as a gorgeous song: the highest form of art. And belting those songs out to a packed-full stadium soars him too new heights. Every hardship he’s ever faced is worth it in those moments, and the giddiness lingers long after his set. He makes his way to his dressing room, knowing he should meet his fans but needing a few moments just to drown in it. He’s almost numb with pleasure. 

He smiles at the bouncer backstage and beelines to the small side door with his name temporarily plastered over it. Inside, he breathes out, coming down. 

But the next breath catches in his throat. The door swings shut behind him, the closing latch thunderous. There’s a man in his dressing room, not a _Man_ at all, not even an elf or dwarf. The messenger is seated on the fold out chair before the mirror, and he’s every bit as handsome as the last time Maglor saw him, some thousand years ago. 

Slowly, Maglor wades forward. He moves like he’s in a dream, or underwater, clouded over, and then he falls to the floor with a formal grace long since forgotten—he bows like he’s back in Valinor. His black hair pools across the tile, his necklace brushing the surface. Even on his knees, his legs won’t stop shaking. 

It’s been so long, but he vividly remembers the deal that he made. His younger self flitters through his mind, so small and insignificant, desperate to be _great_. Not like his father or his brothers—Maglor’s dreams were very different. He wanted only to be _heard_. He asked the Valar for fame and fortune, purely to spread this joy, and he knows that they heard him. He knows the simple details of the deal that they struck. He can’t be mad now that they’ve come to collect—they delivered on their promise. 

“Rise, Kanafinwë.” 

Eönwë’s voice is still deep, stern but never cruel. Maglor wordlessly obeys, straightening up, though his knees stay folded. His palms splay across them, suddenly sweat-slicked. Even the lights of the stage, beating down on him for hours, couldn’t do that to him. His nerves wrack his body now, but he swallows hard and remembers all he’s done. All the music that he’s made. Countless albums, more hits than anyone in history—all different genres, changing with the times: new instruments and techniques, he was there for it all. He’s had nothing but success and a grand evolution for it. He’s eternally grateful. 

So Manwë’s messenger doesn’t have to, Maglor recites, “You will take me back to Valinor.” He will play in Manwë’s halls— _only_ Manwë’s halls—and it will be a small price to pay for all he’s had in Middle Earth. 

“That last song,” Eönwë murmurs. It echoes through Maglor like the waves of home, the voice of a Maia too splendid for Middle Earth. “You used to play it beneath my window.”

A version of it. A very different one, hollow and unrefined—back when it was only Maglor, Kanafinwë, and his harp. His experience has shaped it into something a thousand times more promising. But the base of it’s the same, the inspiration unchanged. Maglor nods. 

“It is still beautiful,” Eönwë tells him. “As are you.”

Colour blooms in Maglor’s cheeks. Eönwë will never know how deeply his complements resonate with Maglor. How much he’s inadvertently contributed to Maglor’s muse. Maglor’s always felt blessed. 

Eönwë pushes from his chair and strolls forward. His white robes seem to float across the floor as though held up on their own clouds. When he reaches Maglor, his arm extends, and his fingers curl beneath Maglor’s chin. Maglor’s tilted up to face him, and Maglor lets their eyes connect, even though he’s unworthy to hold the gaze of a Maia so great as Eönwë.

“I was to take you back... but in the waiting, I heard your concert. And now I have not the heart to take you from this world.” 

Maglor’s eyes widen. That was never the deal. He almost speaks out of turn and tells Eönwë that Middle Earth hardly needs him—there are hundreds of other singers that have matched his skill, even without the blessing of the Valar. He holds his tongue and remembers that Eönwë must know that. The Valar are far, but they know all. 

Eönwë is as close to a Vala as the Maiar come, and he has complete authority to act in Manwë’s stead. His thumb gently strokes across Maglor’s chin as he whispers, “Your contract is extended, Kanafinwë, for another hundred years.”

Tears bead in the corner of Maglor’s eyes. In the life of an elf, one hundred years is nothing, but in the life of _music_ , one hundred years is an eternity. He’ll see countless other styles blossom and watch new sounds come to life. He’ll write another dozen albums and play for millions of new people. Valinor will still be there when he returns, just as it ever was, but here, his art will be ever changing. 

Maglor’s eyes flutter closed. Overwhelmed, he takes that in. Then he asks, “How can I ever repay you?”

“Play me that song,” Eönwë answers easily. “Play it for me as you did then, and every other iteration it has gone through since. Then I will leave alone and look forward to the beauty you will become in another century.” 

Maglor slips out of Eönwë’s grip in a second bow right to the floor. Then he rises to fetch his harp and sing his gratitude, despite the lump in his throat and the tears on his cheeks, and the love on Eönwë’s perfect face.


End file.
